


Mycroft at the Diogenes Club with Tea

by HeayPuckett



Series: The Adventures of Molly Hooper and the Holmes Brothers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Mycroft, BAMF-est!Molly!Ever!, Backstory, Cake, Coffee, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Friendship, Gen, I answered my own question, I just like typing tags, Implied Romance, Manipulative Mycroft, Mollcroft, Mycroft tried to be a good mummy, Mycroft with his sleeves rolled up, Mycroft's Umbrella, No Spoilers, Perceptive Molly, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Series 3, Romance, Sherlock is a handful, Sherlolly - Freeform, Tea, Why aren't we calling it Mylly?, bamf!Molly, crack pops up now and then, dash of angst, drop of fluff, not much of either, wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeayPuckett/pseuds/HeayPuckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sir, there's a mortician here to see you about a dead man." </p><p>Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper and the beginning of a beautiful (odd) friendship. Backstory of sorts for "There's Always Something." Set between series 2 and 3, but includes post-series 3 chapters. No spoilers. Hints of future Sherlock/Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sir, there's a mortician here to see you about a dead man

**Author's Note:**

> I know that Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper have only ever been in one scene together, but the idea that they would become besties is irresistible to me. This is a backstory of sorts for "There's Always Something," though you don't have to read that to understand this one.

* * *

 

It was just shy of a year after the suicide jump of one Sherlock Holmes when Molly Hooper received an unexpected -and frightening- phone call. 

 

"Hello, Dr. Hooper speaking." Molly answered her mobile on the first ring, pleasant and professional as always. That all evaporated instantly when she heard the frantic voice on the other end.

 

" _Molly_? Why the hell are you answering Mycroft's phone!?"

 

Molly was as startled by the loud popping noises in the background as she was to hear Sherlock shouting in her ear. There was a distant scream and a grunt from Sherlock. And then... was that an explosion? Molly kept her wits long enough to duck into the storage room behind her office before saying anything. Even alone in a cupboard, she felt the need to whisper. 

 

"Sherlock?  _Sherlock?!_ "

 

There was a great deal of noise on the other end. She thought she could hear Sherlock muttering about _Mycroft_  and  _same initials_ , but nothing she could really make out. There was more grunting and popping noises, which sounded a bit further away, before a breathless Sherlock spoke again, more to himself than Molly. "Molly. I meant to dial my brother. Sorry to bother you."

 

"Are you all right? What's going on? Do you need-" Molly stopped short as the line abruptly went dead. She continued to hold the phone to her ear as she slipped back out of the storage room. In a bit of a daze, she pulled the phone away and stared at it. Molly didn't know how long she stood there before a hand fell on her shoulder.

 

"Molly? Are you all right?" Too dazed to react, she didn't say anything. The hand guided her to a chair and spoke to her kindly. "Sit down. You've gone white as a sheet."

 

She looked up into the concerned eyes of Mike Stamford, "I have to go," Molly started, hardly realizing what she was saying, "family emergency."

 

"Of course. You leave right now. I'll clear everything."

 

The kind older doctor walked with her to the street and hailed a cab, offering his help in any way. She thanked him, calmer now that the shock was beginning to wear off, and got in the cab. She almost gave John Watson's address to the cabbie before realizing her mistake. Where could she go? Who could she...? A face popped into her head, of a man she had only met once and not under the best of circumstances. She sat forward and blurted out the only destination that made sense. 

 

"Do you know how to get to the Diogenes Club?"

 

Within the hour, Molly Hooper was standing on the stoop of what she thought was an exclusive men-only club frequented by Mycroft Holmes. She was also banging on the door and ignoring the scowling cabbie who was waiting for his fee. Molly hadn't thought to take anything when she left Bart's; she had no purse. At least she had identification. It was pinned to the lab coat she was still wearing. The only money she had was a pocket full of change left over from buying her lunch in the canteen. 

 

Thankfully, a very nice older gentleman (the butler, she presumed) not only answered her knock, but paid the cabbie and sent him on his way. Molly suspected his kindness had more to do with stopping the noise than helping her, but she didn't care at that moment. 

 

"I need to see Mycroft Holmes. Now."

 

The butler tried to bundle her into what looked like a waiting room, but she just repeated her statement as she increased the volume of her voice. That brought a few younger, more burly men dressed in Victorian waistcoats who were probably supposed to intimidate her. Well, good luck with that. She had dated- and more importantly, dumped- an international criminal mastermind. Molly Hooper was not going to be intimidated by a couple of rejects from Downton Abbey. 

 

"Tell Mr. Holmes there's a mortician here to see him about a dead man!"

 

All three of the men attempted to grab the agitated doctor. Molly was small and quick and easily ducked under arms and between bodies, repeating her demand to see Mycroft Holmes until the man himself finally showed up, looking very put out. He shooed away the burly footmen, nodded to the butler and gestured for Molly to follow him back through the bowels of the old, wood-paneled building to what she assumed was his office. 

 

 

"I've just spoken to the dead man and he explained his little mistake."

 

"Is he all right?" Molly insisted desperately.

 

"Yes, quite, well," He looked rather annoyed, "as well as he ever is, considering his penchant for dramatic scenes. Really, could he, just once, finish a job without the exposition on his own genius?"

 

Molly scrunched her nose, "He spent too much time pointing out all of the details to the bad guys again, didn't he?"

 

"Hmm," Mycroft agreed, rolling his eyes, "They got a bit tetchy, naturally. Guns were drawn. Ground to air missiles primed." Seeing Molly pale even further, he added, "In the end, he accomplished his goal with very little injury to himself."

 

Molly wilted with relief, sagging against the nearest wall. Mycroft, with his impeccable manners, stepped forward to offer assistance.

 

"Humphries, be so good as to bring in a fresh trolley. Miss Hooper has had a nasty shock. A bit of cake will set her to rights. Bring coffee as well. You prefer coffee to tea, don't you Miss Hooper?" 

 

The butler bowed out and Mycroft took Molly's elbow, "Come along my dear and have a sit down. Wouldn't want you to faint, now would we? There we go," Mycroft said as he eased Molly into a plush chair that probably cost more than a year's rent on her flat, then took the seat opposite. Now that she had made it past the brute squad and into the inner sanctum, she had to admit to feeling a bit intimidated. 

 

"Too late to play the timid lass now, Miss Hooper. You've successfully invaded one of the most secretive clubs in the nation. No going back from that." 

 

Molly had the vague feeling Mycroft was ridiculing her and was hit with a very strong sense of deja-vu. Offer her tea and cake and she'll shut up. Compliment her hair and she'll roll out the body for you. She wondered if either of the Holmes boys knew how to interact with human beings without being manipulative prats in the process. 

 

"Not really, no."

 

...and apparently Molly wasn't calm enough to realize she was speaking aloud. She blushed and tried to apologize.

 

"Sorry! I didn't mean to-"

 

Mycroft waived an imperious hand, "It's the truth, Miss Hooper. It is a fact that manipulating a person is often a much more efficient means of achieving a goal than taking the time to explain. I don't expect you to understand, nor do I offer apologies. It is simply the way of things."

 

Molly smiled a bit, understanding more than Mycroft, with his impeccable condescension, probably realized. She had seen it in Sherlock often enough, the way his brain worked faster than even  _he_  could articulate. Molly could see how it would seem easier just to lie to get what was needed. She didn't like it, certainly didn't approve, but understood a bit better now and that made it easier to justify her own willingness to be manipulated.

 

"Of course, manipulation can also be rather tricky when dealing with someone such as yourself. A person who recognizes the subterfuge for what it is. I must admit to being surprised at how easily you seem to see it."

 

Mycroft was studying her with the same narrow-eyed look Sherlock had when he was parsing clues. This Holmes, at least, did not blurt out his conclusions to all and sundry. At the same time, he was colder, more reserved. One of the things Molly lov- liked most about Sherlock was his almost manic energy, the passion he showed for his work. 

 

"I've known Sherlock for several years now," Molly said, shrugging, "I've paid attention. You're very like him, you know. Same mannerisms, only a little more subtle. Not that difficult to spot the way you both handle people, though. You're the one who taught him how to do it in the first place, aren't you? He just doesn't apply his skills in exactly the same way. You're more polite about it." Realizing how that might sound to Sherlock's older brother, Molly backtracked, "Oh! I... uh... I don't mean to say Sherlock isn't  _polite_. He can be when he wants something. It's just. Well, I don't think he sees the point in being polite for the sake of being polite."

 

Mycroft's mouth thinned out into an approximation of a smile. "You are every bit as perceptive as my brother indicated."

 

"Sherlock told you that?"

 

"Warned, actually. Ah, here's our tea." 

 

Molly wanted to ask what he meant by 'warned' but Humphries took his time setting out the tea things, presenting Molly with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee and Mycroft a lovely-smelling cup of tea (both served in cups that looked disturbingly expensive), and passing a tea cake to Molly. She tried to refuse the cake, but Mycroft insisted and she found herself devouring the lightest confection she had ever eaten. By the time she and Mycroft had seconds, the conversation had moved forward. 

 

"You know, Miss Hooper, you have turned out to be one of the most useful assets in all of this. Everyone underestimates you, including, I'm ashamed to say, me. I won't be making that mistake again, though, rest assured."

 

Molly felt equally flattered and troubled. Mycroft made the last part sound suspiciously like a threat.  He was staring at her again, hands in a steeple under his chin in a pose so familiar, it made Molly's heart hurt. 

 

"I can confidently say that my brother  _will_  underestimate you again, however."

 

"What makes you say that?" Molly tried not to let the hurt she felt flow into her voice, but wasn't entirely successful.

 

"Because you are a conundrum, Miss Hooper. You are everything you appear to be and, yet, not."

 

"I don't understand," Molly was truly confused and, she must admit, feeling the affects of overindulging in the lovely cakes. She had the feeling Mycroft was up to something and that, sooner or later, she would be caught up in it. She also had the sinking feeling that Sherlock's inability to see her clearly was going to be used against him somehow and that made her nauseous. 

 

Again proving that he did indeed share genetic material with Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft answered her last concern without Molly having to voice it. 

 

"My brother's safety is important to me, Miss Hooper. I should think the lengths I've gone to in killing him would serve as proof of that."

 

"I know," Molly started, "but you both put winning above safety."

 

"Some sacrifices are always necessary, Miss Hooper. The fate of nations outweigh the personal safety of individuals."

 

"I just want Sherlock to be all right," Molly said, standing and looking down at the powerful man seated before her. "All of your political machinations, international intrigue... it's all very exciting, but I just want  _him_  to be safe."

 

Mycroft looked at her for a long moment and stood, towering over her now. "I know," he said, "I'm counting on that, Miss Hooper." With a smile, he walked Molly out of the office and ordered a car to take her back to Bart's. It was after she arrived at the hospital and made it safely to the deserted morgue that her phone rang again. She answered with the usual professionalism, but a wobble to her voice. 

 

"Dr. Hooper speaking."

 

"Mycroft said he just spoke to you." 

 

"Sherlock? Are you all right? Tell me!"

 

"I'm fine, Molly. Calm down."

 

"I won't calm down! You and your brother...! This is all a game to you, isn't it? I thought was listening to you be  _killed_!"

 

"Of course it's not a game!" Sherlock shouted. He stopped talking abruptly. Molly remained silent, counting the breaths she could hear over the phone, matching hers to the rhythm, until they were both calmer. She knew she should apologize for the accusation, but also that she wasn't entirely wrong. It wasn't her place to say it, though, Molly knew that. It wasn't her place to seek out Mycroft Holmes, either, but Molly was as impulsive when acting on her feelings as Sherlock was when solving a case. 

 

"Why were you talking to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed. He interrupted before she had a chance to reply, "It doesn't matter. Stay away from him. And don't let him into Bart's while I'm away. He invades enough of my life."

 

"And death, apparently," Molly said without thinking. She thought she heard a snort on the other end of the phone. It made her smile. 

 

"Listen," Sherlock said shortly, "I'm sorry that I called you-"

 

"I'm not," Molly blurted, "I mean, I'm sorry you didn't get help faster because you called the wrong person, but I'm not sorry that I got to hear your voice. I've been so worried." The last was said in a tear-filled whisper, in spite of Molly's best efforts. 

 

"Molly," his voice held that warning note that Molly was all too familiar with, "you have to be careful. If anyone catches on to the fact that you're worrying over a dead man, it may lead to awkward questions."

 

"Don't worry. No one pays much attention to me and when they do, they assume it's grief." Molly paused and took a breath, "Which it is, in a way-" She closed her mouth to stop the ensuing babble that would probably have made him hang up. As it was, silence reigned on the line for so long that Molly was worried that he had actually disconnected. She heard him clear his throat, though and sighed in spite of herself. 

 

"I'm glad I misdialed," Sherlock said in a low voice, "It's comforting to hear," he stopped and was silent for another long moment, "It's good to know that someone in the world wishes me well."

 

"Always," Molly breathed. She closed her eyes and swallowed, "But you're not going to 'misdial' again. Are you?" 

 

"No. I can't afford to make mistakes."

 

"I know," Molly answered quietly. 

 

"Staying in touch will only hinder my efforts."

 

"I know that, too."

 

"I'll be removing your contact from my phone as soon as we disconnect."

 

"Okay."

 

There was another drawn out silence in which Molly concentrated on listening to Sherlock breathing on the other end. It didn't even occur to her that he might be doing the same. 

 

"Goodbye, Molly."

 

"Goodbye, Sherlock"

 

"And stay away from Mycroft." With that he did ring off. 

 

It wasn't until a year after his return to the living that Molly found out Sherlock had not, in fact, erased her from his phone. Instead he had relabeled her number "Hope" and buried it in an encrypted emergency contacts file. Molly tried really hard not to read too much into that, but then Sherlock was suddenly kissing the air from her lungs and the point became rather moot.


	2. Have a Jolly Brolly Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder why Mycroft is never seen outside his office without his brolly? Molly has and she's determined to get to the bottom of that mystery. In honour of International Umbrella Day, I give you more conversations with Mycroft Holmes. This time with presents! Cameo appearance by Molly Hooper's dimples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is complete crack and not meant to be taken the least bit seriously. Oh and, IT REALLY IS UMBRELLA DAY!!!!! Take your brolly to supper and show your appreciation.
> 
> Last note: written partially on my phone, not beta'd as I wanted to post while it was still actually Umbrella Day and before I get caught writing a fic at work, so expect mistakes. I may re-edit later so it will read better.

 

 

 

* * *

"Sir, Molly Hooper called to request a meeting," Mycroft's personal assistant informed him over his mobile.

 

"Is it urgent?" Mycroft asked, checking his watch. "I have a little time right now if it's something pressing."

 

"No, sir. Miss Hooper was adamant that she didn't want to be a bother. She wishes to give you something and wanted to know a convenient time."

 

"Well, if it's not urgent, I hesitate to have her come to the Diogenes Club again. Old Sir Harold is beginning to make a fuss. I'd rather avoid his huffing and puffing at the moment." Mycroft looked up, checking the sky to find it clear and bright. "I'm not far away and I have my umbrella.  I'll just pop over on my way back to the office."

 

"Very good sir."

 

Within ten minutes, Mycroft Holmes was striding purposefully through the doors of St. Bart's primary laboratory. The woman he had come there to meet was currently hunched over a large computer keyboard, typing swiftly. He waited politely for a pause (unlike his brother, Mycroft had patience to spare), before making his presence know with a discreet cough. 

 

Molly looked up from her work and a smile spread over her face, "Oh, hello! I just called to talk to you."

 

"Yes, so I was informed. As I was in the neighborhood, I thought I might pop in for a visit."

 

"Lovely! I've been looking forward to this all week. Well, you may think it's silly, but," Molly reached under the counter, producing a small flat box which she held out to the older man, "here! I hope you like it." 

 

Mycroft tilted his head and slowly took the box. His sharp gaze took in the distinctive green ribbon, the pristine box... ah, handkerchiefs. But...why? 

 

"I thank you, Miss Hooper, but must admit you have me at an advantage. Is there some special occasion I've overlooked? Oh Lord, don't tell me it's Christmas again already?" Mycroft checked the date on his phone to be sure even as Molly answered.

 

"No, of course not. It's not really a special occasion at all," Molly said, still smiling so widely that her dimples were threatening to take over her entire fact, "Like I said, it's silly, but when I found out what today was, I couldn't resist doing something."

 

He regarded the young woman as she practically vibrated with suppressed excitement. Clearly she was having a tremendous amount of fun, not something he gathered she had had much of in the last 10 months. Whatever it she was doing, Mycroft had not doubt it was, in fact, silly, but he felt obligated towards Molly Hooper. If he were to be completely honest, which he tried not to be very often, Mycroft would admit to having developed a small fondness for her. Well, he had some time and indulging a whim here and there would make it much easier to ask Miss Hooper's cooperation in other matters. 

 

"Why don't we have a cup of tea while I open my gift?"

 

"Sounds lovely! Canteen?" Molly asked, slipping out of her lab coat and going to wash her hands. He did so appreciate her meticulous lab habits.

 

"Ah, not the canteen," Mycroft responded, horror struck at the thought of sitting among the masses to have a dubiously produced cup of tea, "You brew a surprisingly fine cup of tea in your common room." 

 

Mycroft held the door for Molly to exit the lab ahead of him and followed her to the small area set aside for use by senior staff. Molly walked across and plucked a tin marked "coffee ante 20p" off a high shelf. 

 

"That's because I know how to hide the good stuff," Molly said, opening the tin to reveal, not spare change contributed to the purchase of tea things, but actual tea. Mycroft couldn't help the small smile at her cleverness. 

 

It didn't take long to brew their tea and for Molly to pull out a plate of delectable little pastries which Mycroft didn't even try to refuse. There was apparently an  _occasion_  to celebrate, after all. 

 

"All right. I suppose you want to know what the occasion is and why I got you a present?"

 

"If you'd be so kind," Mycroft agreed wryly. 

 

"Well, I have a desk diary with all sorts of obscure holidays listed and today is Umbrella Day!"

 

Mycroft promptly choked on his tea. After a glass of water and few back slaps from Molly, he was fine and gestured for her to go on. 

 

Molly shrugged, but her face was still wreathed in smiles as she said, "I have yet to see you without your brolly, even that time we had tea at the Diogenes Club, so when I saw the date, I just had to do something." She gestured to the gift, "open it." 

 

Mycroft eyed her suspiciously. In his line of work, anyone that pleased with themselves could be classified as being either off their trolley or a dangerous threat. He was learning, though, that Molly Hooper was her own class of person. After a moment, he smiled (and if it was with some fondness, well, there was no one to see but Miss Hooper) and opened the package. 

 

It was, as he suspected, a set of delicately hemstitched linen handkerchiefs. Quite nice in and of themselves, but Molly had gone to the trouble of having them monogrammed as well. He picked one up out of the box. Upon closer inspection, he saw the finely wrought snow white monogram was enclosed inside an open umbrella. Mycroft heard a giggle and looked up in time to see Molly hide a grin behind her teacup. 

 

"Very charming, Miss Hooper." 

 

"I told you it was silly," Molly laughed, a completely charming sound to Mycroft's ears. He spent so much of his time among serious people like himself, and he preferred it that way, but if he must interact with the public, he much preferred Molly's company to anyone else's. 

 

"Where ever did you find a shop that carries such high-quality linen who would be willing to embroider an umbrella in the corner?"

 

"My dad carried handkerchiefs, so I went to the shop he always used. I just made a special request. They were quite nice about it." Molly smiled and Mycroft knew exactly what made the shopkeep acquiesce to her demand. It was just a good thing for the free world that Molly Hooper used her dimples for good instead of evil.

 

"Now, it's your turn," Molly insisted, setting aside her teacup. 

 

"What could I possibly give you that competes with this?" 

 

"Tell me about your umbrella." 

 

"My umbrella?"

 

"Yep. The brolly. Talk."

 

"My 'brolly' doesn't have a 'story,' I assure you."

 

"Oh, don't give me that! It's a perfectly lovely day outside and you come in her with it hanging off your elbow like you're off to the Ministry of Silly Walks." Molly leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, "you can tell me."

 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her, trying to make out what, if anything, she knew. Sherlock had warned him before leaving that Molly Hooper was much more perceptive than was quite safe. He was beginning to see what his brother meant. 

 

"I'm a creature of habits, Miss Hooper, I'm sure my brother has even intimated to you that I'm obsessive compulsive -which, truthfully, I can't rule out."

 

"Nonsense. Straightening my name badge every time you say good bye to me is obsessive. Carrying an umbrella when it's not needed is something else," Molly leaned over the table and whispered, "does it have a poison dart gun in it? Like that assassin back in the seventies?"

 

Mycroft relaxed a little. If she thought the umbrella was a weapon, that was a relief. It led her away from the true nature of his trusty umbrella. 

 

"No, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with an even mixture of exasperation and amusement, "I assure you there is not any sort of projectile weapon taking up the inside of my umbrella-"

 

"A sword! Those little thin bladed ones that Victorian men used to pull out of their canes!"

 

"Wrong again, although you've touched on an idea that is much more plausible. Canes are not in fashion these days for those who are not in genuine need of the assistance. If I were to carry a cane around with me, people would notice." Mycroft tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, "But who notices a man with an umbrella in London?"

 

Molly deflated a bit, but still regarded him suspiciously. It was only his decades of experience in the special services that kept Mycroft from fidgeting nervously. That one had a stare that could make Bambi look like a cynic. Honestly, the longer Mycroft knew Molly Hooper, the more certain he became that he was going to have to recruit her at some point or England would fall. 

 

"Are you sure there's nothing else?" Molly said with a bit of a pout.

 

"My umbrella is my defense against the elements, Miss Hooper. It gets me safely around London, nothing more," Mycroft said with absolute truthfulness, knowing that what he said would be misinterpreted. "Now," he said, standing up in one graceful motion, "I've enjoyed our tea and I thank you for the truly lovely gift, but I must be off now."

 

Molly nodded and walked him to the lifts, "Thanks for coming, Mr. Holmes. You're a good sport."

 

"Good sport, nothing. I got two hand-hemmed linen handkerchiefs and a delicious cream tea out of this little excursion. You spoil me, Miss Hooper."

 

They bid farewell and Molly turned back towards the labs. Since she was walking away from the lifts, she didn't notice that the lift went up instead of down. A few minutes later, Mycroft Holmes was standing on the roof of Bart's Hospital, not on the exact spot where his brother and Moriarty met their respective ends, but close. If he were a sentimental person, it might have affected him more, but he wasn't (and his brother was only theoretically dead), so he set about making a phone call as he intended. 

 

"Yes. I'm on my way back to the office now. Sky's clear so, oh, about fifteen minutes I expect. Yes. Good." He rang off and carefully placed his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. He buttoned his overcoat and unfurled his umbrella. 

 

Once open, the umbrella handle revealed a sophisticated computer panel into which Mycroft entered coordinates (careful to account for the strong headwind around the Gherkin) and raised it over his head. He was careful to hold on to the handle with both hands as the umbrella lifted him into the air. Landings were always smooth, but the take offs were generally a bit bumpy. 

 

After slowly rising to cruising height, Mycroft thumbed the navigational controls of his umbrella and headed for home. 

 

* * *


	3. Hooper, Molly Hooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally leverages the asset known as Molly Hooper. Set five months before Mycroft retrieves Sherlock from Serbia.

 

* * *

Molly Hooper was not an action hero by any stretch of the imagination, but she could hold her own in a fight if necessary. Which is a truth just discovered by the burly man currently writing on the pavement at her feet. Molly took a hasty step back and prepared to land another kick to the man's face, when she heard a familiar voice call from the car parked just a few steps away.

"I'll thank you not to permanently damage my agent, Miss Hooper. He may be completely incompetent, but he was just doing his job." Mycroft Holmes glared at the prone agent as he exited the sleek sedan, "Although I will admit, he was doing his job very badly and it's unlikely he will have that job much longer. Duncan, do stop whining and get back in the car."

"Mr. Holmes?" Molly, her fight-or-flight adrenaline rush fading, suddenly felt light headed. She didn't normally walk home after an overnight shift, but it was dawn by the time she was able to leave the hospital and she wanted to enjoy the rising sun. Only three blocks from home, she had the life scared out of her when a car suddenly screeched to a halt by the curb. "Duncan" leapt out and grabbed at her and, well, the rest was not hard to guess given the man's condition.

Mycroft stepped up and smiled a cold, yet oddly charming, little smile. "Would you do me the honour of joining me for tea, Miss Hooper?"

Molly nodded, though she was perfectly aware that the question had been a formality. Mycroft handed her into the luxurious interior of the not-quite-standard-issue government vehicle and slid in beside the young woman. He gave orders for the driver to drop them off at the Diogenes Club before shooting a disgusted glare towards Duncan. He ordered that man to be taken to someplace called "The Creche." For some reason, that made Molly feel very sorry for Duncan.

It wasn't long before Molly found herself seated in the now familiar confines of Mycroft Holme's office, sipping an exotic coffee blend (really, Mycroft had totally ruined her for canteen coffee) and nibbling on delicate little biscuits. The room smelled pleasantly of wood and lavender, two scents that always reminded her of father.

The two chatted pleasantly while they finished the refreshments. Molly of course wanted to get straight to the reason for her visit, but she had learned very quickly that Mycroft Holmes, unlike his brother, had patience in spades. He was quite content to wait for the proper moment; the longer the wait (and the nicer the biscuits) the more serious the issue. By the time she had finished her coffee, Molly was certain this visit was about Sherlock.

After the wait staff cleared their tea things, Mycroft spoke. "You are no doubt wondering why I would pluck you from the streets of London at such an ungodly hour."

"No doubt," Molly agreed with a wry smile.

"You, Miss Hooper, have remained stubbornly single for the past year," Mycroft began.  _There_ , Molly thought,  _was the Holmes bluntness._  "Over the past seven weeks, your friends have -at various times- attempted to introduce you to a man named Tom West."

Molly stiffened in anger. She kept her mouth shut with effort and only because she had known for some time that she was under surveillance. Had, in fact, been under surveillance since Sherlock started visiting Bart's on a regular basis. It had creeped her out at first, but she was a fundamentally honest person with nothing to hide, so she had gotten used to the invasion of privacy. Knowing that the great and powerful Mycroft had been keeping up with her love life, however, was a bit much.

"Tom West is a 32 year old banker with great prospects and ownership of both his three bedroom flat and a smallish country home in Devonshire."

Molly rolled her eyes and finally interrupted, "Yes, so everyone has told me. Repeatedly. Working on a side career as a matchmaker, Mr. Holmes? Or maybe you're volunteering as duenna?"

The smile Mycroft bestowed upon the woman could almost, if one tilted one's head just so, be described as affectionate. "Hmm, not precisely, Miss Hooper. Tom West is one of my agents. His current assignment requires an appropriate cover, which, as I'm sure you've surmised by now, was supposed to be you."

"Wha-? I don't...," Molly's cheeks puffed out a little, something that happened when she was completely taken aback.

"Miss Hooper, the next time your friend Ellen wants to introduce you to a Tom West, for pity's sake say  _yes_!"

"Why should I?" Molly demanded, but with more confusion than genuine anger.

"My brother is very close to finishing his work," Mycroft answered immediately, "At the same time, there is a situation developing here in London, one that could potentially become very dangerous. Mr. West's assignment is to be covert protection for Sherlock should the need arise."

"Sherlock is coming home?" Molly's voice was only a touch more breathless than it had been, but the joy was palpable.

"Soon," Mycroft said gently, "but not before I'm prepared to see to his safety. That means having Tom West well established as your paramour long before Sherlock returns."

Molly stared at the man across from her typical shrewdness. "Why me?"

"I need someone who's sole focus is Sherlock's safety."

"John-" Molly started, but Mycroft interjected quickly.

"Doctor Watson will no doubt help my brother, but only after he's gotten over the shock of Sherlock being alive. Then there's the possibility that he will be too angry to forgive him straight way and there simply isn't time for the good doctor to process his emotions. You don't have that liability, Miss Hooper." Mycroft's gaze turned steely as he continued. Molly could clearly see the powerful man behind the charming reserve. "As I've said, we have a situation developing and I can't afford to wait for human nature to play out in this case. You are capable of completely subverting your emotions in order to get something done, given that the task is important enough. It's a natural requirement of your job. It's also a quality I've had the privilege to observe personally on two occasions."

Molly understood the logic of what Mycroft was suggesting, but couldn't get past the fear. Not for her own safety, but the fear that she would somehow fail and Sherlock would end up hurt anyway. "I'm not an agent, Mr. Holmes. I don't know how to... to play this kind of game. The stakes are too high."

"You didn't fail my brother in his death. You won't fail him in his second life," Mycroft insisted, "You underestimate yourself almost as much as everyone else does Miss Hooper. You have both a keen understanding of human emotion and the ability to appear quite harmless. Combined, that makes you a valuable asset."

"You seem sure of that."

"I am. Sherlock would be the first to say, however grudgingly, that I'm never wrong about these things."

"What makes you think Sherlock won't figure out this scheme? I understand that he won't pay much attention to me, he never has, but you said yourself that he spots all of your agents."

"I think you underestimate your importance to my brother, Miss Hooper. He  _will_  pay attention to you and that is why this will work."

It took Molly several moments to catch on to Mycroft's implication, "You think he won't try to deduce my supposed boyfriend because he doesn't want to hurt my feelings?" She snorted, "You haven't been paying much attention yourself, have you? Shredding my dates is an old hobby of his."

"Apparently my brother does  _friends_  now. He's fond of you, Miss Hooper, and grateful for your assistance. He's perfectly aware that his predilection towards analyzing you has caused pain in the past. He will, by way of repaying your loyalty to him, resist the urge to dissect your fiancé. That is as close to a grand gesture as he's capable, yes, I did say fiancé. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say."

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock in one year, seven months, ten days and some few hours. She hadn't heard his voice in one year and six days. Oh how Molly wanted to believe Sherlock had missed her even a fraction of the amount that she missed him, but in spite of her hopelessly romantic soul, Molly was a realist. She didn't argue with the elder Holmes, but she doubted this plan would work. She may not like what she was going to do over the next few months, but Sherlock was finally coming home and that was all that really mattered.

Molly finally agreed, then asked, "So, what's he like? My future fiancé?"

"Ah, that would be spoiling the surprise, Miss Hooper."

Surprise indeed. When Molly finally met her "intended," Tom West, she felt like ringing up Mycroft Bloody Holmes and... and...  _something_... something  _really bad_. She kept her face as neutral as possible, which wasn't very considering the smirk forming on the young man's face.

"So, didn't tell you then?" said Tom West, flaunting his high cheekbones and curly hair and bespoke suit.

"That obvious, was it?" Molly said through a fake smile and a parody of cheerfulness.

"A bit," he chuckled, which made Molly fume more. "You really are steaming, aren't you?"

"Incandescent," Molly said in a voice so pleasant, even Mycroft Holmes would shudder. It was a testament to the young man's fortitude that he didn't seem the least bit phased.

"Come on," Tom said, leaning closer, "you have to look like you're interested, remember?"

"Oh, I'm interested," Molly said breezily, "in kicking you both in the-"

He suddenly swooped down and kissed her. Molly bit his lip.

The rest of the night went about as well.


	4. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly takes responsibility for every body that passes through her morgue. Finding out that one of her charges was misidentified is something she takes very personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Set during Sherlock's time away, a few months after TRF. Two chapters in one night! Woot!

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft Holmes was a creature of schedules, routines and protocols. He did not like having those schedules, routines and protocols upset. Ever. Which is one of the many reasons he was so very proficient at his job. Messy little international incidents springing up to disrupt his day were dealt with harshly and swiftly. If he was diligent enough, he could have the world (or at least, his corner of it) running smoothly again by tea time. 

 

You can imagine how put out he would be having his day disrupted by an hysterical female. 

 

Hysterical might be a bit over dramatic, but she was certainly animated. It was the second time Miss Molly Hooper had breached the defenses of the Diogenes Club and Mycroft could feel the disapproval of the old guard sitting silently in the library, watching them through the doorway. 

 

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with bland pleasantness. He might find her presence an annoyance at the moment, but he was a man of impeccable manners and would not show his irritation. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

 

"Who was that woman Sherlock identified last Christmas?" Molly asked without preamble. She hadn't spoken too loudly, but loudly enough for several men to glance their way with puzzled frowns. 

 

"This way, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with a sigh, leading the woman back to his public office. His private office was in the basement, behind bomb grade concrete three meters thick. Some days he wanted to stay down there and lock the blast doors. 

 

Having hosted Miss Hooper several times now, Mycroft was able to give orders to the Diogenes butler as he passed and a full coffee service was waiting for them by the time they reached the office. The young woman was fidgeting, but too well brought up to interrupt as cups were handed out and plates of dainties passed around. She immediately set both aside in favour of clutching at her own hands. Mycroft allowed silence to fall and remain for quite a while before beginning the discussion. 

 

"Now, Miss Hooper, you were asking about a body?"

 

"Yes," Molly jumped in, rushing through her statement as though she expected to be tossed out at any moment, "last Christmas. You had a body brought to Bart's for Sherlock to identify."

 

"Yes, I vaguely remember that," Mycroft hedged. 

 

"Well, I know now it wasn't Irene Adler and I'm here to find out the truth." 

 

Truth. Mycroft scoffed. Truth was all about perception. No, the woman buried under the name Irene Adler was not, in fact, Irene Adler. Nor was the headless body that had been dumped in a Pakistani wasteland. It had only taken Mycroft a few weeks to discover his brother's heroics in saving Miss Adler once again. He never let on that he knew. Adler was scheming her way through South America currently and was not currently his problem. Best let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. 

 

"May I ask where you got the impression that it wasn't Miss Adler on your slab?"

 

"John Watson." 

 

"Of course," Mycroft  said with an irritated nod, "and why would he tell you such a thing?"

 

"We were discussing old cases. He's not doing well, you know. Or maybe you don't," Molly stopped and shook her head, "Anyway, we meet for coffee every so often and it helps him to recount some of their old cases. Yesterday, he told me about that woman... he called her THE Woman. He laughed when I told him how Sherlock identified the body," Molly laughed a little, but it sounded forced, "He explained about her faking her death..." 

 

"Yes," Mycroft jumped in, "she did. She and my brother were-"

 

"Look," Molly interrupted, wringing her hands a little, "Whatever went on between Sherlock and this Miss Adler is none of my business, really," she paused and rubbed at her temple, "I know it's none of my business... but that other woman, the one we were supposed to think was Irene Adler, she  _is_  my business. She was my responsibility and I sent her off under a false name with people she never knew. I want to know who she was so that I can find her family, give them closure."

 

"You seem certain that she had family." 

 

"No, not certain. She may have no family, just friends, or maybe not even those, but I'm certain there is someone, somewhere who will want to know that she's dead." 

 

Miss Hooper stood up and began to pace. Mycroft took the opportunity to study her with more care. She was of a nervous temperament and often misspoke (sometimes with embarrassing results), but her dedication to her work trumped all of that. It was a good indicator of how serious she was that she didn't stumble over her words once. Mycroft realized now that this wasn't simply fastidiousness with regards to her job.

 

Finally, the young woman stopped pacing and said, "I know she's simply a detail to you and Sherlock, one not worth much note, but she was my responsibility and I owe it to her to have a truthful end to her story."

 

"You're identifying with her," Mycroft stated carefully.

 

"Yes, I am, Mr. Holmes. It's called empathy. You might want to look that one up because you've obviously deleted it." She stopped herself, closed her eyes and took a breath, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

 

"But true," Mycroft conceded. "Empathy isn't helpful to someone like me."

 

"I've tried to understand that point of view," she said carefully, "the idea that the ends justify the means and the greater good. I know you have to think like that, I really do, even if I can't fully understand how you manage it, but the fact remains that I have a moral obligation to the people who end up in my morgue. I need to set this right."

 

Mycroft studied Molly Hooper for several moments. She began fidgeting about five minutes in, as he suspected she would considering how tightly wound she was at the moment. She didn't start pacing again, though, or turn away. She stood her ground. It was then that Mycroft truly saw the woman that Sherlock had insisted would help them fake a death. Miss Hooper wasn't insisting on finding this woman's identity because of hospital regulations. She was perfectly willing to forgo the rules, even break them, if necessary. It was about integrity and her belief that everyone deserved a proper end. 

 

"The truth is, Miss Hooper, we didn't bother to find out her identity. We did, however, keep the dna samples from the body that were matched to the falsified reports. Those samples were taken directly from the body. I assume you kept a copy of the x-rays?"

 

Molly nodded. 

 

"Well, that is much more than most cold case investigators have, so you should be able to find the woman's identity... eventually."

 

"I have some clues already, beyond the DNA samples and the x-rays," Miss Hooper said, looking Mycroft straight in the eye. "The body was fresh. Not dead more than a two hours. Sherlock was able to identify her from her body. That body would have had to match exactly to fool him. Finding a dead body to match that precisely, even taking in to account Sherlock possibly missing a clue because of his emotional state... it would be next to impossible..." 

 

She trailed off and Mycroft smiled at her perceptiveness. "People in Miss Adler's profession often keep body doubles, for several obvious reasons," he confirmed. "I would assume this one proved useful in another way."

 

Molly Hooper's eyes flashed and she pursed her lips. There was genuine anger there. Whether it was directed at Mycroft for his cold recitation of the facts or on behalf of the woman murdered -or both- he didn't know. What he did know was that this was a mission Miss Hooper was not going to give up. 

 

"She had a tumour," Miss Hooper said finally, her gaze veering to a painting to her right. It was a seaside landscape of muted blues and grays. He found it rather soothing himself on occasion. "inoperable. She would have been dead within six months."

 

"Ah," Mycroft said softly, but made no further comment. 

 

"Do you think she... I don't know...volunteered?"

 

"You mean was she offered something such as, let's say, a luxurious lifestyle for the last few months of her life, in exchange for allowing herself to be killed? It's possible. It's equally possible that she begged for mercy while she was violently murdered."

 

Miss Hooper started and looked back at him sharply. 

 

"Did you expect words of comfort from me, Miss Hooper? I deal with the amoral every day, and some of them are part of our own government. People who hold human life so cheaply that they can quantify a 'success' to mean only fifty lives were lost instead of two hundred. I learned that my job means disregarding the emotional element of what I do. Sometimes one must become a monster in order to defeat a monster."

 

Miss Hooper looked him straight in the eye. He saw some of what she was feeling pass over her features, she wasn't particularly good at hiding her emotions, but it was the flash of compassion in her eyes that took him off guard. She felt... pity? For him?

 

"I'll have a list of Miss Adler's known employees sent over along with the DNA samples," Mycroft said as he stood, suddenly ready to end this meeting. "Good enough?"

 

"How do I know the samples are actually hers?"

 

"You have my word Miss Hooper."

 

Miss Hooper nodded, "Good enough."

 

It took Molly Hooper seven and a half months to track down the cold case files of one Penelope Parkington (a.k.a. Pennie Lane) and another two to find her bereaved parents. Mycroft 'just happened' to have stopped by St. Bartholomew's morgue on the day that Molly Hooper met with the Parkingtons. He just happened to overhear their heartfelt thanks to the young pathologist for not giving up and for ending the nightmare of not knowing what had happened to their daughter. 

 

It was a mere coincidence when the Parkingtons received word that the government would be paying for not only the exhumation of their daughter's remains, but also for a full re-burial and complete memorial service to the family's specifications. Mycroft had been duly surprised to find out this bit of information when Miss Hooper had dropped by to inform him.  Miss Hooper, faced with his dismissal of the idea that he had instigated the whole thing, simply smiled and invited him for tea. 

 

* * *


	5. If you thought the brolly chapter was silly...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would summarize, but that would imply I'm taking this one seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Crack. The crackiest crack that ever crackled at a crack. Blame goes to... uh, I mean dedicated to Stormweaver, who is the reason this exists. May qualify as being slightly Mollcroft. If you are a Mollcroft shipper and think I should add it to the tags, let me know.

 

 

* * *

 

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don't you dare!" John Watson growled from his place at the door to St. Bart's lab. The man in question froze, his hand (clutching a box of caustic chemicals) half-way to his jacket pocket. Sherlock glared at John and it was not because he had been caught nicking controlled substances from the lab.

"I never should have told you my name."

"Probably not," John agreed, walking up and plucking the contraband from Sherlock's fingers, "especially since you already knew I was about to become a father. Instinct kicks in immediately, you know. I've not only adopted my dad's annoying habit of using full names when angry, but I've also grown my dad's finger." To prove the latter, he proceeded to point at the taller man in a very stern manner. "Stop trying to steal chemicals for your home experiments."

"If you keep trying to steal chemicals, I'll start calling you 'Billy' again," Molly's voice, closer than either man had expected, made them both start. Sherlock's scowl deepened. 

"Just because you heard John call me William, doesn't mean I've ever gone by the name 'Billy.' "

"You did though," she handed him a cup of coffee with one hand and retrieved the box of chemicals from John with the other, "Well, until you decided to try Scotty." 

"Like on Star Trek?" John chuckled. He paused, then said, "Wait, when did Sherlock tell you his full name? I didn't even know until a couple of months ago."

"I never told her my name," Sherlock insisted, looking disturbed.

"Of course he didn't," Molly said. She turned from replacing the chemicals Sherlock was trying to abscond with and gave him a smug look. "Your parents told me your name."

Both John and Sherlock looked gobsmacked, but it was Sherlock who spoke.

"I have never introduced you to my parents," he sounded offended by the very idea. Molly's face crumpled slightly, but she rallied. 

"You really don't remember?" Her voice sounded small, but she smiled anyway. "You must have deleted it, I guess." She looked down at her clasped hands.

John gave him a shove and Sherlock scrambled for an idea of what to say. He was about to blurt out something absurd (but not untrue) about deleting most things involving his parents when he caught Molly looking at him slyly. He frowned and she dimpled.

"You're doing that  _teasing_  thing again," he accused, studying her with an annoyed squint. 

"Yup," Molly giggled. 

"I never introduced you to my parents."

"Nope."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted smugly as he took a sip of coffee.

"Mycroft did. Oh, by the way, your parents think Mycroft and I are having it off." 

John was treated to the rare sight of Sherlock Holmes spewing his coffee over four thousand pounds worth of lab equipment. 

**======================================**

_Eleven months previous..._

"Oh, Myc, she's adorable," Mother gushed in what she probably thought was a whisper.

"Like a china doll," Father agreed, not quite quietly enough either, "and so clever."

"Well, of course she is," Mother said with confidence, "my boy wouldn't give the time of day to someone who wasn't exceedingly intelligent."

"Yes, well, it's been lovely seeing you both but here's the car," Mycroft uncharacteristically babbled as he attempted to shoo his parents into the sleek sedan he ordered to deliver the older couple to the train station, "if you leave now, you'll be home just in time for your customary toddy and telly.

"Yes, yes," Mother Holmes said absently as she crushed Molly in a warm hug. "Oh, my dear I can not begin to tell you how happy you've made me."

"Yes, so exciting to meet you, Molly dear," Father Holmes said after giving Molly a light kiss on the forehead. Molly, though she had had a wonderful afternoon, was not completely certain why she was there or why Mr. and Mrs Holmes would be excited to meet her.

Father Holmes turned to Mycroft and, in his best man-to-man tone, added, "Don't dawdle too long, son. Ladies like Molly aren't satisfied with providing free milk forever." 

 

Mycroft would deny until his dying day that he was blushing as he all but shoved his parents into the waiting car and barking an order for it to leave immediately. Molly could faintly hear Mrs. Holmes say something that sounded like "grandbabies."

  
"...what was...? Wait... did I just..." Molly looked to the retreating car with confusion, then back to Mycroft. "Did I just accidentally pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your parents?"

Mycroft smiled and waved to another black sedan to pull up. As he held the door open for her, Mycroft said "It's been a pleasure as always, Miss Hooper. Let's do this again in the near future. Good day."

 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After having written this, I've been inspired to possibly write a serious (well, as serious as I'm capable) fic about Mycroft and Sherlock competing for Molly Hooper. Emphasis on possible. I've already got two and a half universes running through my brain.


	6. Primrose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a shrinking violet proves to be a scarlet pimpernel; Mycroft does not fall on his sword (but manages to get stabbed anyway); and Sherlock's nose is bloodied by a most unexpected assailant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up directly after "There's Always Something."

"Since when do we do this?" Molly Hooper asked casually, squeezing the large hand wrapped around her own. She wasn't complaining about holding hands, not by any means, it was just that they didn't hold hands. Ever.

"I'm trying something new," responded the owner of that hand, one Sherlock Holmes, "call it an experiment." He paused before adding, "Do you mind?"

"Well, I do enjoy assisting you in your experiments," Molly answered with a smile. She was enjoying the feeling of her smaller hand tucked up in the warmth of his. It was fine and big with just enough chapping and calluses to be interesting.

Molly had only ever touched this hand fleetingly and in an entirely (well, mostly) professional context. That's not to say she hadn't noticed Sherlock's hands before. On the contrary, the detective's long fingers and broad palms were the subject of long-term study. From the prayer-like position of his hands when visiting his "mind palace," to the sensual way his fingers curled around an object handed to him, Molly had made quite an extensive mental catalogue of Sherlock's hands.

The tiny burn scar she felt at the base of his thumb was added to the gallery in her mind. The tips of her fingers just grazed the scrapes left on his knuckles from the earlier fight. She didn't have a chance to add more as they came to a stop in front of the Land Rover in which Sherlock and John had arrived.

"Now," Sherlock said, releasing her hand and opening the passenger door, "you were relating how you knew Not Anthea was in fact  _not_  Anthea." He tilted his head slightly to indicate she should get into the car, but Molly balked. The last time she let someone else drive, she ended up with a black eye and blood on her favourite jumper.

"I'll drive," she insisted, holding out her hand for the keys.

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked and he spared her a quick, calculating squint, but offered no argument. He dropped the keys in her palm and slid into the passenger seat. Molly might have been shocked at the lack of resistance had it happened on any other day, but Molly rated Sherlock's reaction pretty low on the list of "Bizarre Things That Happened to Molly Hooper Today." Sherlock waited until she strapped in and drove them off the tarmac before repeating himself.

"Oh, yes," Molly replied with a start, "It was kind of obvious, really…"

* * *

_Four hours earlier..._

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

The annoying high-pitched mantra repeating ad nauseam on the monitor in St. Bart's morgue resolved itself into a resonating lilt that was disturbing in its banality. Likewise, the satirical animation glitched and morphed into what appeared to be a live recording of a very familiar man.

_"A man that was supposed to be dead," Molly thought with growing dread, "Dead and buried. Dead, buried and worm food. Fertilizer even. Oh God, what if..."_

Molly Hooper was not too proud to admit to screeching in terror when her mobile began to ring. Biting her lip to halt the urge to whimper as she fumbled in her trouser pocket, the woman finally managed to pull her phone free and answer with a breathless, "H-hello?"

"Miss Hooper."

"Mycroft!" Molly slumped against the bench behind her even as her eyes remained glued to the monitor visible through the office door. "Are you watching this? What's happening? He's de-"

"Yes, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes cut in smoothly, "James Moriarty is dead. I'm confident in your original findings in that area. As to what is in fact happening, I will need more data before forming a hypothesis. In the meantime, I would like to confer with you at our customary tea room. Is one quarter of an hour convenient for you?"

Molly didn't know whether to be annoyed at the Mycroft's composure or laugh hysterically at the inappropriate level of formality he insisted upon. They had known each other for over four years and had tea almost weekly for the last two. One would think the man might at least start using her first name. Molly had to admit, Mycroft's lack of discomfort in the situation was in itself a comfort, in an odd sort of way.

"That is quite convenient, Mr. Holmes," she sighed in relief and rang off.

When Anthea arrived less than five minutes later, Molly was a bit surprised. Even with no traffic it took at least ten minutes to get from the Diogenes Club to Bart's. Her thoughts occupied by the current crisis, Molly didn't think too much of the sudden appearance of Mycroft' trusted assistant until she was securely in the car. They were already well on their way before Molly realized her mistake.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was annoyed. He had intended to proceed directly from the airstrip to St. Bartholomew's Hospital after his conversation with Molly Hooper, but a frantic (if such a word could ever properly be used with Anthea) call made it necessary to change his route. If what his assistant hinted at was accurate, then the Diogenes Club had been compromised as thoroughly as the nation's broadcast airwaves. The fact that he had received the phone call a mere two hours after Anthea had returned from a two week mission to Switzerland indicated that she had special intelligence on the matter.

So, the senior director of Britain's special services found himself pacing in an abandoned factory on the wrong side of the Thames while his P.A. picked up Miss Hooper. It wasn't the change of plans that annoyed Mycroft. It was the decrepit building in which he was forced to wait.

Mycroft suppressed a sigh as he idly swung his umbrella in arcs as he wandered about. He also fought off a completely inappropriate urge to remove his jacket- being seen in his shirtsleeves around lower level operatives was simply out of the question. The air in the empty building was absolutely fetid. Sitting down to wait was also not an option. He wouldn't risk a bespoke Gieves and Hawkes suit on the refuse that passed for furniture at this safe house. Armani, perhaps, but not Gieves and Hawkes.

One thing was certain: the person responsible for compromising Mycroft's personal fortress and forcing him to retreat to this sty would pay dearly for the inconvenience. He paused to poke at slab of broken concrete with his umbrella. Any threat to Queen and Country was taken as a personal slight by Mycroft Holmes and dealt with accordingly. He would destroy whomever was behind this disruption of his carefully maintained order.

And if it kept his brother from being forced into a suicide mission, all the better.

* * *

" _Okay. This looks bad, but it could be worse,"_  Molly thought to herself as she tried not to panic. Panic wouldn't help anything. Anthea wouldn't panic. The real Anthea wouldn't panic. Molly wasn't certain what that Prada-wearing-imposter who tried to kidnap her would do in this situation, but she knew that the woman who managed to keep Mycroft Holmes out of trouble on a daily basis would not panic.

" _You took on one of Mycroft's brute squad once and won,"_  Molly continued her mental pep talk,  _"You just escaped from some Bond-villainess-wannabe relatively unscathed. Sure, you don't know where you are and neither Sherlock nor John are answering their phones, so your chances of getting actual help are pretty low, but hey! You've got your health. Ow! And a rock in your shoe."_

Molly ducked behind a skip and leaned against a nondescript brick wall in an area of London she had actively avoided since moving to the city ten years ago. It was full of empty post-industrial warehouses and factory buildings. Far enough from the general population that no one could hear you scream. As she shook the rock out and replaced her shoe, Molly took stock of her situation.

She really was rubbish at the whole cloak and dagger thing. Yes, she got away, but help was far away, no one important was answering their mobiles and where Mycroft could be was a mystery. It was the latter point that truly concerned Molly. If Anthea wasn't real, then Mycroft was either walking into a trap or already ensnared.

"You heard from her yet?" A gravely voice suddenly sliced through the quiet. Molly froze and listened.

"No," another voice answered, "She won't call until they're far enough out that her guest can't jump."

"Well, she better get here soon. His Nibs is driving me off my trolley. She don't get here soon, I'm going to take care of him myself."

Molly risked a peek around the back of the bin and caught a glimpse of two men, clad entirely in black with suspiciously gun-shaped bulges under their jackets. There was what appeared to be a ski mask poking out of thug 1's pocket. The cliches just kept piling up.

"Shut your mouth!" Thing 1 hissed. "We're getting paid enough to follow orders to the letter, so do as you're told!"

With that, the pair walked back around the corner. Molly, not giving herself the chance to think and therefore talk herself out of it, followed. Clutching the phone to her chest, ready to dial 999 at the least provocation, Molly shadowed the men. She saw them duck into a doorway in the largest building in the complex. Molly tiptoed (later she would be so very thankful that no one had been with her because,  _tiptoed_ ), across the way. Slinking along the side of the building, she finally found a window low enough and clean enough to peek through.

Thankful not to have found one of the thugs staring back at her, Molly looked around as much as she dared. The first two thugs had larger, more stereotypical comrades scattered about the perimeter of the room. Mycroft was pacing a circuit around a few pieces of furniture. He wasn't watching anyone and the casual motion of his umbrella seemed to indicate that everything was fine. Either Mycroft was in charge of all of this after all (in which case she was going to kick him in the shin the first chance she got) or he was unaware of the situation (in which case she was never, ever going to let him live it down).

Either way, Molly decided that caution was the better part of valour. Or something like that.

* * *

Mycroft was pulled from his detailed mental analysis of his situation by the sound of his mobile ringing. He pulled the device from his pocket and glared at the screen. The noise it was making was completely unacceptable and when he found out who ( _don't think I don't know, darling baby brother_ ) changed his ringtone to "Do You Hear the People Sing," he was going to eviscerate him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said with the customary hint of complete boredom.

"Mycroft!" Molly Hooper's perpetually cheerful voice blared through the phone, making him wince. "I'm sorry I'm running late. The traffic along the A1 is atrocious as always. Alarming, really."

Mycroft's attention was at full alert. Using alliteration was one of the codes he had devised for Molly Hooper during Sherlock's hiatus. It was a simple alert code indicating danger. "Of course. Outrageous," Mycroft responded by way of acknowledging that her message was received.

"I hope you don't mind me calling now. I'm not interrupting am I? I was feeling a bit nervous, you know, after your first call. The whole zombie supervillain thing," Molly said with a genuinely nervous chuckle. "I thought talking might help a bit and I think I'm driving Anthea batty."

"Anthea's with you, then?" He asked blandly, noting the two operatives on his left who seemed keen on pretending not to listen to the conversation. If this location was compromised as well, it was likely the call was being monitored.

"Oh yes! Anthea arrived just after you called," Molly answered. 'Just arrived' actually meant 'unknown location.' Mycroft worked hard to remain casual as Molly continued. "She was looking lovely as ever with her fancy corsage. The oleander smells wonderful and I particularly like the primrose. That's a  _primula vulgaris_  to you, Mr. Brown-thumbs."

Anyone watching Mycroft (and his entourage was currently watching him very closely) would have observed the slight, brief pause in his pacing but only those who knew him exceptionally well, and that was a short list, would have understood this as an indicator of surprise on his part.

"Vulgaris, you say? I can't tell one from the other. Are you certain?"

A high-pitched, slightly hysterical giggle met his ears. Steady on, my girl. Molly audibly swallowed before continuing. "Oh yes. Anthea seems to prefer the English primrose. Personally, if given a choice, I prefer  _cercis siliquastrum_ or a  _dracaena._

"I enjoy _proteas_ , truthfully."

"I love peonies. I have a huge vase full of them at home." Molly's tone had a subtle bite to it that almost made Mycroft smile.

"Of that I have no doubt, Miss Hooper." Mycroft straightened his already perfect posture. "I'm afraid you will have to hold on where you are, at the mercy of traffic."

"I might be able to get there sooner-"

"No," Mycroft interrupted, his tone icy. "Stay in the car. I will see you soon."

With that, he rang off, put the mobile in his breast pocket and removed his jacket. As he rolled up his shirt sleeves, Mycroft's mind kicked into high gear. He would normally take time to formulate a plan, but there were too many things happening at once, none of which were under his control. Anthea was either a traitor or was in danger; he was surrounded by enemy operatives; and Sherlock was most likely walking into a trap. As Mycroft pulled the blade free of its umbrella handle sheath, he comforted himself with the fact that Miss Hooper at least was well away from danger.

* * *

It had taken Molly a bit longer than she would have liked to figure out a plan. Not that the plan did her any good. When she crept (no tiptoeing this time!) into the building holding the pipe she had decided to use as a weapon, she found Mycroft already crossing swords with his captors. That wasn't a poetic turn of phrase either. He was literally slicing at Things 1 & 2 (or 3 & 4; they looked remarkably alike) with a long sword. Two of the assailants were already lying in a senseless heap.

"I knew that brolly wasn't just a brolly!" Molly shouted as she swung her pipe at the knee of the nearest TiB (Thing in Black). Her weapon connected with a squelching crunch and was accompanied by a rather girly scream from the recipient. She followed up with a vicious strike to his back. Molly really didn't want to kill anyone, but she had absolutely no qualms with doing permanent damage.

Mycroft didn't bother to look up from his own battle as he answered, "I lie for a living, Miss Hooper. Get used to it."

Mycroft brought the sword down sharply across the upper arm of one of his opponents. Molly could see a couple of firearms lying several yards away, explaining why the thugs hadn't just shot him when the fight started. She would have to get that part of the story from him later. Right now, she was busy trying to knock out the second assailant.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car, Miss Hooper."

"As I wasn't in a car at the time, I chose to use my best judgement."

"At the moment I would label your judgement questionable, not best." He ended in a shout as he drove the sword into his opponent's chest cavity, neatly piercing the heart. Molly drove her lead pipe up into the chin of her thug, then bashed him in the head. He probably wouldn't die from the head wound, but he might. Once the area was secure, she would check him. Mycroft's opponent was definitely dead.

In the sudden stillness that followed, only Molly's laboured breathing could be heard. Mycroft, as cool and unperturbed as ever, didn't even look winded. Not for the first time, Molly marveled at the Holmes' genes.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with a small smile, "I thank you for your assistance, but I think you should wait outside. If you would be so good as to text the word 'Saigon' to the contact in your phone called 'Sergeant Pepper' I would be most grateful." As he spoke he made a shooing motion towards Molly.

For her part, Molly didn't know whether to protest being shooed or balk at the fact that Mycroft, at some point, had managed to nick her phone and do something spy-ishy to it. Nor did she have time to decide as, just as she turned back, Thing 2, not so unconscious as Molly had thought, leapt up and plunged a knife into Mycroft's side. Fueled by a rush of adrenaline, Molly slammed the lead pipe against Thing 2's head and followed up with several more crushing blows, just to be sure he wouldn't get up a second time.

Two years on A & E rotation had prepared Molly Hooper for a critical situation such as this, so she was able to shut out the part of her brain screaming in terror for her friend and snap to action. Easing Mycroft onto the ground, she ripped open his waistcoat and shirt (to Mycroft's weakening protests; he really did not like having his clothing mussed) and assessed the damage. The wound was deep and had most likely nicked his intestines increasing the chance of peritonitis…

"The car is on the south side of this building. Take your phone and one of those firearms and lock yourself in until a unit arrives."

"What? No! I'm not leaving you here!" Molly had her phone out, trying to call 999, but there was no connection.

"You won't be able to get a signal on your phone."

"I will on yours," Molly countered, reaching for that device. Mycroft stilled her hand.

"Miss Hooper." Mycroft paused. "Molly. My phone is most likely compromised. If you use my phone then the perpetrators of this farce will know where we are, that I am injured and that you are unprotected." He caught Molly's eye and gave her an absurdly stern look for someone bleeding out at such a rate. "You can use your phone from my vehicle. It's armoured. Even if Anthea's double arrives with reinforcements, they won't be able to get to you before help arrives."

"I can't leave you here. You will die."

"Perhaps, but if you fail to make that call before assistance arrives, I will certainly bleed to death. Go to the car."

Molly was beginning to truly despise the Holmes family record for being correct. With a growl, she packed Mycroft's wound as best she could with his jacket, sticking her tongue out when he whine about his favourite suit. She waffled for one moment more, gave the stubborn man a quick kiss on the forehead and dashed out of the back of the building.

Molly spotted the car immediately. She sent the code as instructed and was about to try calling 999 when she heard cars pulling up on the other side of the complex. She looked at Mycroft's car for a moment and dashed back inside the building.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes secretly believed everything his brother ever told him. He would never admit it, of course. Mycroft was quite vain enough, thank you. However, over the past few years, he had begun to doubt Mycroft's opinions on certain topics. Sentiment, for example. More accurately, he began to doubt his brother's belief in those opinions. Sherlock was willing to concede one point: Sentiment was not an advantage.

Take the current situation. He and John had just successfully defeated a cadre of assassins left behind by Moriarty as "plan b" only to discover that the real targets had been Mycroft and Molly Hooper. The only thing in recent memory that had caused him this much distress involved a bullet and massive internal bleeding. Worry had clouded his brain to the point that he was acting on instinct rather than conscious thought. Unacceptable.

"Let's not go barreling in like a herd of bloody elephants," John Watson cautioned, catching Sherlock's arm, "We don't know what's in there."

Sherlock uncharacteristically let John take the lead in this plan and nodded. They cautiously made their way through an opening in the wall leading to the larger of the buildings in the complex. They hadn't made it half a dozen steps inside before…

"Ow!"

Sherlock's head snapped back from the force of the fist that connected with his nose. He would have responded in kind and immediately had not he heard, "Sherlock!"

"Molly?" Sherlock's normally smooth baritone sounded nasally behind his hand.

"I thought you were one of the bad guys! Is John with- John! Mycroft's been stabbed!"

There was a flurry of activity at that point: John and Molly rushed to Mycroft's aid; the cavalry finally arrived as did emergency services. Everyone swarmed around Mycroft as they stabilized him and prepped for transport. It was bedlam, but not of the sort Sherlock had expected.

"This is a mess."

Sherlock turned at the familiar sound of Anthea's voice. He would have responded, but didn't have a chance due to the tiny blur that shot past him and slammed Anthea to the ground. The knife Anthea had been holding ( _not_  Anthea, Sherlock now realized), skittered across the floor. In the following few minutes -surrounded by a stunned consulting detective, members of the Met and various branches of special services- Molly Hooper beat the everloving Hell out of a fake Anthea.

When she was done and sitting on the unconscious imposter's back, Sherlock pulled out a set of handcuffs and silently offered them to his favourite pathologist.

* * *

"It was the flower?" Sherlock asked Molly as they finished their dinner. After Mycroft had been sorted, he and Molly had cleaned up as best they could and wandered away from the hospital in search of food. They were at a little pub Molly knew of enjoying surprisingly decent dishes.

"Yes, exactly," Molly said with enthusiasm, "You see, Mycroft chose the primula polyanthus as the 'all is well' sign because of the play on Anthea's name. Get it?"

Sherlock nodded, looking genuinely interested, "Both have a common Greek root: anthus, meaning flower."

"BUT," Molly declared, possibly a little too loudly, but the adrenaline had been augmented by caffeine by now, so she couldn't really help it, "Not Anthea was wearing the primula vulgaris -also known as the English Primrose. It's more common and easier to get here, but that was part of Mycroft's point. They look alike unless you really know your flowers."

"That was very observant of you," Sherlock remarked. Being called  _observant_  by Sherlock Holmes was a compliment of the highest caliber and one Molly did not take lightly. She felt a slight blush rising to her cheeks, but only responded with a quiet "thank you."

"So, when you called, the flowers you mentioned conveyed the message to Mycroft," Sherlock prompted, "a play on the Victorian language of flowers."

Molly nodded and drained the last of her coffee. Dabbing at her lips with a napkin she explained, " _cercis siliquastrum_ means betrayal and  _dracaena_ translates to 'you are near a trap.' Or is it 'snare?' Same thing I suppose. Oleander basically means 'beware.'"

"'Protea.' Courage. That was Mycroft trying to give you encouragement," Sherlock nodded and then frowned, "I'm not familiar with the use of the peony."

"Anger," Molly said tossing her napkin onto her tray, "A whole florist shop full of peonies wouldn't be enough! I was furious."

"So I noticed. So did Not Anthea," Sherlock murmured as he plucked a tuft of bloody hair from Molly's sleeve. She grimaced and looked up to find him squinting at her in concentration.

Sherlock continued to stare at Molly with one of those assessing looks that made her want to squirm, but it was several more moments before she felt the need to look away. To hide her discomfiture, she stuffed a few more bites of food in her mouth in rapid succession. She realized suddenly that she probably looked like a chipmunk. Swallowing hastily (miraculously not choking), she risked a glance back at Sherlock and was relieved to see him staring at his own plate. She watched him pick at the remains of his dinner and realized he was working up to saying something.

"I owe you a great debt, Molly. It's more correct to say 'debts,' I suppose." He stopped and cleared his throat before beginning again. "You were extraordinary today."

Molly full-on blushed this time. "Oh, I didn't do anything special. Anyone would have-"

"No," he interrupted, looking at her sharply, "That's not true, as you well know. You were very brave, as I expected, and extremely clever, which surprised me more than it should have. You were also foolish." Sherlock scowled down at his plate, stabbing at a piece of penne, "Part of me wants to shout at you for putting yourself in danger for Mycroft. The other part is grateful. Mycroft's death would have been…  _annoying_  in the extreme."

Molly smiled gently. "I'm glad I was able to help."

"Yes, well, so am I," Sherlock's gaze darted about, avoiding Molly. It was cute, the way Sherlock got all flustered when he apologized or said 'thank you.' Especially in this instance when he was trying so hard not to admit that he had been afraid of losing his big brother and had been worried about Molly. He really was adorable, Molly thought, as adorable as he was formidable. He was a big adorable force of nature.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hmm?" Molly shook off her thoughts and pushed away from the table. "Oh, I was just considering something." They stood and began to make their way to the pub entrance.

"What, exactly, would you be considering?"

"Giving you a kiss on the cheek."

"Wanton hussy," Sherlock deadpanned.

"I know," Molly bubbled, "Whatever are you going to do with me?"

"Experiment some more," he said casually, grabbing her hand and pulling her out onto the street.

As they walked back towards St. Bart's, Sherlock felt his mobile buzz. After a quick glance and a quicker response, he pocketed the phone and, when Molly wasn't looking, flipped off the CCTV camera they were just passing. John was correct. Sometimes gestures were the most satisfying response.

* * *

A few blocks away, Mycroft Holmes smirked at the tablet in his hand currently displaying the CCTV feed from the Smithfield street cameras. Dressed as he was in a red silk dressing gown, propped up on a bank of featherdown pillows (hospital issue would never do) and not one single hair out of place, he looked as regal as ever. If he was unnaturally pale and if his hands shook subtly as he typed the text to his brother, no one noticed. Actually, one person noticed.

"You really shouldn't bait your brother like that. At least, not until you're out of hospital."

Anthea, the real Anthea, was sitting primly on a comfortable chair (also not standard hospital issue) situated next to the bed. She was, per usual, dividing attention between her mobile and her boss. The only indication that she had just spent two weeks as a prisoner in the ruins of a Swiss castle near Basel was a plaster on her chin and the cast on her arm.

"If I don't bait him," Mycroft responded, "he will get the impression that I approve and we know how  _that_  would end."

"Do you?" Anthea asked, glancing up briefly, "Approve of them?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose briefly. It was his version of a shrug. "She's proven herself capable of handling him, I suppose, although what she actually sees in the overgown child, I will never know. He's a textbook study in narcissism and obsessive compulsive behaviour. What sane woman finds that attractive?"

Anthea eyed him over the top of her mobile and smirked, "I wouldn't know, sir."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, huge, well-deserved THANKS! to Stormweaver who is the best beta ever. Not only did she help me clean this chapter up, she helped me with the source material for the flower code. 
> 
> Why, yes, I do have a hand fetish, why do you ask? Benedict Cumberbatch is definitely on my top ten list of Men with Gorgeous Hands. Richard Armitage is still undefeated at #1, but BC is definitely high on the list. 
> 
> ...and you're welcome for the mental image of Mycroft in his shirtsleeves fighting with a room full of ruffians.


End file.
